The Day of War
by m.jules
Summary: The Fullmetal Alchemist and his brother join the war in the north.


**Title:** The Day of War  
**Author:** m.jules  
**Rating:** PG  
**Timeline:** Speculative future of the manga -- can be read as branching off from "Yet Gentle," possibly a prequel to "They Fought From Heaven."  
**Pairing:** Roy/Al  
**Disclaimer:** No profit, no lawsuit.  
**Author's Notes:** Thanks to my beta squad, **DM Evans**, Firedog, **SJ Smith**, **Marlex**. For my Roy/Al claim at **7stages**: Theme: "As near as snow"

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_"Have you come into the secret place of snow, or have you seen the store-houses of ice, which I have kept for the time of trouble, for the day of war and fighting? Which is the way to the place where the wind is measured out, and the east wind sent out over the earth?" - Job 38:22-24_

To the soldiers from East City who followed him with a sense of awe and fear, he was untouchable, stone-cold inside his flame of passion. The North was a harsh front on which to fight a battle against immortals and madmen, but he led them with a face set like flint and they followed. The hero of Ishbal was going to make them all the heroes of Amestris. They were all unswervingly loyal; nevertheless, no one knew him or got close to him. Not even Major Armstrong, whom the colonel had known for years, could breach the barrier of ice he'd put up.

It was with surprise, then, that the men in camp saw his stony expression crack and morph into fiery rage at the arrival of a slender young soldier with long, caramel-colored hair and warm bronze eyes. The boy – his face said he wasn't more than seventeen though his eyes suggested he had lived through centuries – snapped one white-gloved hand to his forehead. A smile tugged at his mouth as he stood before Colonel Mustang, impeccable blue uniform speckled with the afternoon snow.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Mustang roared, and his men were shocked, astounded, alarmed, to see the tremor that ran through his frame. "Get the hell out of here!"

"It's no good," a resigned voice said and it was then that they noticed another young man, this one with hair the color of summer sunshine and the tawny eyes of a young lion. He stood slightly behind the first, his arms crossed over his chest, red coat snapping in the wind. The fact that he'd gone unnoticed at first, even with that crimson cloak, was a testament to the intensity with which the Flame Alchemist had focused on the boy in uniform. "I've already tried."

"Try harder," Mustang barked, turning sharply on his heel and stalking away without returning the salute. The boy in uniform frowned and hesitated for a moment, obviously debating whether to hold the salute. In a few short seconds, he dropped his hand and bolted after the colonel, legs almost as long as the older man's eating up the distance between them with barely any effort.

"I'm staying, Sir," he said, and his voice made them ratchet their estimate of his age downward. Sixteen? Fifteen? He was too young to be in this war. No wonder Mustang didn't want him here.

"The hell you are." There was barely contained fury shaking in that voice that never wavered, and every soldier in camp quietly paused in their activities to watch. "Edward! Take your brother and go home!"

The golden-haired boy – of course, the Fullmetal Alchemist; why hadn't they recognized him? But was that his brother? The walking suit of armor? – shrugged, but the sour look on his face betrayed that Mustang had lost the battle before it began. "He won't go home," Edward grunted. "And neither will I."

Mustang stopped dead and whirled to face the boys again. "I outrank you both," he snarled viciously. "And I said _go home!_"

The younger one handed over an envelope with a bright red Amestrian seal and said lowly, "This says we stay."

"I don't answer to the fuhrer anymore," Mustang bit out, ignoring the envelope.

"That's not from the fuhrer," Edward put in gruffly, shoving his hands into his pockets and hunching his shoulders against the cold. "It's from his secretary."

Mustang froze, all his rage blown away in the northern wind like the ashes from one of his fires, and there was a brief flicker of hope, of panic, in his dark eyes before his cold façade slipped back into place. "Come into my tent," he said, almost cordially, leading the way.

The three men stepped into the colonel's tent and the flap closed behind them, fastened against the cold. Gradually, all the soldiers returned to their duties, heads bowed against the wind, a new flicker of hope in their chests. The Fullmetal Alchemist had joined their ranks, and so had his brother.


End file.
